


Haven

by shyday



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 01 Spoilers, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 12:54:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3411371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shyday/pseuds/shyday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Won't you come inside, Inspector? Ask your questions over tea?'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haven

**Author's Note:**

> A fluff of a thing, because after that last fic I felt like I owed Reid a little comfort. Set between 1.06 and 1.07. For those few of you out there inexplicably not yet weary of my routine.
> 
> I make no money, because they don’t belong to me.

 

 

* * *

 

The angry letters splashed on the brick wall scream hate through their paint. _Kike. Christ killer._ Deborah Goren stands alone in front of them in the early dawn light, trembling as she stares them down.

 

It is rage as much as anything, though she’d be lying to herself not to admit to the fear. Someone, multiple someones, had been here while they slept. Had spilled their vile ignorance across the walls of this home. So near to the heads of her lost little ones, a defacing of this haven she has worked so hard to build. Instead of paint and fire crackers, they could have easily tried to burn the orphanage to the ground.

 

“Miss Goren?”

 

It is barely more than a whisper behind her in the thin morning air, but despite all the rest her stomach gives a tiny flutter in its recognition. She had not expected it would be he who took the time to respond to this. Deborah swallows, taking care to compose her features before she turns around. She has not seen him since the day that he kissed her.

 

“Inspector,” she greets him, and even with those dark slurs smeared looming at her back she cannot help but address him with a genuine small smile. It should not be so, but she feels a connection to this man. They have not spoken of what happened. She has tried not to dwell.

 

Reid scowls past her, his eyes tracing the desecration on the building. At his shoulder stands a uniformed policeman, barely older than a boy. She is grateful that it is not the other one, the man he’s come here with twice past. The one who walked in on them. The younger man samples the ugly paint job with a series of darting sidelong glances, as if he’s unable to face the graffiti head on.

 

“This happened last night?” Reid asks, his attention still on the wall.

 

“A little more than an hour ago,” Deborah confirms. “We were awoken by the sound of the explosions, the crackers they lit while they were running away.”

 

Reid looks to her, those pale eyes now searching her face. “You are unharmed? Your charges?”

 

“Frightened only,” she assures him, wondering if she imagines the sharp concern she sees there. “The children are resilient – even now most of them crowd the entryway, their fear turned to excitement with this unfamiliar start to their day.”

 

A long moment while he continues to study her, as if uncertain she speaks the truth in this. Deborah thinks he looks tired. A fatigue not entirely blamed on the earliness of the hour.

 

He spares another glare for the damage, before turning to the boy at his side. “Scout the area. Be sure there are no further dangers lurking.” With a nod, the young man hurries off. Reid rubs at the bridge of his nose with his fingertips.

 

Perhaps flushed as well, Deborah thinks. It is difficult to be sure in this deceptive new light.

 

“Will you come inside, Inspector? Ask your questions over tea?”

 

He appears as if he will refuse her suggestion, but now he notices how she shivers under her shawl. “Of course,” he says, gesturing for her to lead the way. His acquiescence acquired Deborah does so. Reid’s footsteps trudge along in her wake.  

 

The children swarm her when she opens the heavy front door, clamoring to hear the story. Reid’s attempt to wade through the mob gets him little farther than just over the threshold. “All is well,” she tells them, her hands absently caressing the heads and shoulders of as many of them as are within reach. Reid looks distinctly uncomfortable, surrounded by so many small bodies; Deborah smothers a flash of amusement.

 

She takes pity on him, though she knows there is no point to trying to convince them to return to bed. “Wash your hands and faces,” she says to the children, “and we shall see about breakfast.” This scatters them, the hallway suddenly echoing in its emptiness.  She watches them go. Reid coughs behind her, and the sound bounces about in the space.

 

“If you’ll pardon me, sir, I go to get changed.” She wears her long nightgown beneath the wrap of the shawl; Reid’s eyes widen a fraction as he registers this. Immediately he averts his gaze to the hat in his hand. He seems flustered. She wonders if he has any idea what it is he really wants.

 

“Yes,” he says, clearing his throat. He won’t look at her now, caught up in his propriety. As if they have not already dallied with crossing such lines. “Forgive me.”

 

Deborah can still feel his hands on her arms, his lips desperate and hungry against hers. “There is no offense, Inspector.” She has no view of the lines of his face, only the hair covering his bowed head. “Please make yourself comfortable while you wait. I will be but a moment.”

 

She rushes to make good on the promise, lingering for only a foolish second or two in front of her mirror. When she returns she finds Reid not in the entryway, but loitering in the doorway of the main room. His attention is on the children; despite the click of her low heels across the wood floor, he fails to hear her approach.

 

“As I said, resilient.” Reid spins around surprisingly startled, and Deborah finds it impossible to keep the frown from her lips. She fights it into a smile. “Are you hungry?”

 

“No.” The word comes far too quickly; he resets with a breath and tries again. “No. Thank you.”

 

Definitely flushed, she decides, her frown struggling to come back. And his eyes looking a bit red-rimmed. Deborah moves past him into the room, leaving the information to process. She shifts instead to something that feels more under her control.

 

This scene might appear chaos to an outside observer, but Deborah knows that each of her children is doing their part in the morning routine. The oatmeal has already been set to heating, the bowls and spoons are being laid around the tables. Emma, the eldest, has a queue of young ones waiting for her to brush their hair. It takes some of them longer than others to find a place when they first arrive here, but every one is a piece in this family puzzle.

 

There is no need to force the smile she wears as she gathers them all into their seats. The room fills with the noises of children eating. Laughter.

   

Deborah crosses to the kettle to boil water for their tea. Reid has not yet entered, remaining in the doorway. She watches him from the corner of her sight; his focus is now on the floorboards, somewhere just beyond the tips of his shoes. There’s a dull, unhealthy energy surrounding him, one she can sense even from here. She doubts that he actually sees the ground he looks at beneath his feet.

 

He coughs into his fist; his hand slides over his chest to press flat against his collarbone. His hat hangs from his left hand, fingers curled in a white knuckled grip around its brim. Deborah takes an automatic step in his direction, though she knows not her intent. She’s stopped by the tug of tiny fingers on her sleeve.

 

Christina, a dark haired beauty abandoned on her doorstep over five years ago. The girl still only speaks in whispers, and Deborah has never managed to get from her her story. She can only hope that the child has no memory of whatever darkness it was that brought her here.

 

Another tug; Deborah bends a little to better hear her. “May we go outside, Miss Goren?”

 

She wishes to keep them from seeing the damage that has been done to their home. She knows most of them have already seen so much worse. “In a little while,” she tells Christina. “Finish your breakfast.” The girl moves back to her place at the table. In all these years, Deborah has yet to catch her wearing a smile.

 

The dented kettle whistles, and she busies herself with preparing two cups. She carries them over to where Reid leans against the doorframe; he blinks at her for a moment before reaching out to take one. He holds it awkwardly between them, as if he is unsure what it is he’s supposed to do. She studies him as she sips at her own.

 

The front door opens and closes; the young officer swiftly joins them. “No sign of anyone, Inspector,” he reports. “But I cleared out some sparklers what were stashed around back.”

 

A parting gift that never got unwrapped. Deborah shivers at the idea of the thing. Reid nods, acknowledging this information.

 

“The paint is still fresh. Find a bucket and a rag, and see what you may be able to do.” The boy looks as if he thinks the inspector joking. “Now, Hobbes,” Reid says.

 

Deborah suspects her expression a mirror of the surprise she can see in the constable’s. But he does not argue, and when his eyes jump to hers, it spurs her into motion. She turns to set her cup on the closest counter surface. “I will show you,” she says, ducking past them to take him to the washroom.

 

A bucket of soapy water and a stained rag; she instructs him on where he can locate their ladder. As much as she appreciates the effort, she doubts there is much to be done with the brick. They will most likely have to paint it all over, a prospect that feels near Herculean in speculative work and finances. Perhaps her brother will have a few people able to lend a hand.

 

She follows the officer back out into the hallway; he keeps his head down as he hurries by Reid with his supplies. Deborah moves back into the main room and reclaims her tea. She takes a minute to savor the taste of it, the sounds of the children still buzzing around, before looking up at him.

 

“That was kind of you,” she says.

 

Reid’s eyes find her face, his attention returning from wherever it has been. He seems confused, but now he shakes his head. “The least I can do.” It’s a murmur.

 

The doorframe looks to be supporting most of his weight. She touches his bent elbow; Reid’s eyes drop to the contact. “Come. Let us sit.” Her words sound steadier than she expects that they are going to; he responds to the contact, the tone, like one of her children. She leads him to sit on the stairs.

 

She settles on the step beside him, his thigh warm against hers in the close space. Deborah shifts away the scant centimeters she is able, her shoulder against the wall; Reid stares dumbly into his teacup. His breathing is rough. Difficult. She tightens her fingers around the china in her hands, resisting an impulse to brush away the lock of hair that has slipped loose down over his forehead.

 

“Your day begins early, Inspector.” An observation made to fill the silence, but one with a disturbing truth to it. She does not flatter herself to think that the problems of a Jewish orphanage are enough to have a Detective Inspector roused from his bed; therefore, he must have already been at the stationhouse when word came of their troubles.

 

“As does yours.” He studies the contents of the cup as if he will tell them both their fortunes. Deborah is uncertain if he really looks at it so much as he chooses not to look at her.

 

“You should not have come all this way,” she says. Gently. Tentatively. “You are unwell.”

 

He pulls in a breath as if to protest this, but his body has other ideas; a spate of harsh coughing overwhelms him to instantly prove her point. Reid turns his head away from her, facing the banister until it subsides. Deborah’s chest tightens in empathy.

 

She has taken the cup from his hands, setting it safely out of the way a few steps above them; she doesn’t think he’s noticed, fighting as he is simply to draw in air. The fit feels to her longer than it actually lasts - to both of them, no doubt - but there is nothing for her to do but wait. When his breathing finally begins to even out, it still sounds to her far too shallow.

 

A wince pulls his profile as he tries to stretch the muscles in his neck. His head falls to hang forward, a hand rubbing fitfully at the skin through his shirt. “A lingering head cold,” he finally dismisses, unable to muster a blatant denial. Her lips press together over her disagreement.

 

The caretaker of so many for so long, Deborah is accustomed to gauging the severity of both injury and illness. Perhaps this began as a head cold, but she fears it may have migrated into his chest. “You should be in bed,” she says. “Not on the streets at this early hour.”

 

“There is work to be done.” It feels frequently uttered, and a bit hollow. A talisman clung to even after its luster has worn away.

 

“And your wife, she is unconcerned that you go about like this?” It escapes a soft thought, not something that should have been said aloud.

 

“She…” He will not turn to her. “If fear we see little of one another.”

 

It is a voice reminiscent of the one which just the other day had spun such a tale of tragedy at her table. Far away, and achingly sad. She thinks this may also explain the before dawn start to his days.

 

But now he recovers himself, pushing more upright against the railing and clearing his throat. “The, ah… the vandals in this. Are you able to identify them?” The set of his jaw strives for professionalism. His eyes bounce away from her face and back again, come to rest on the wall beyond her ear.   

 

“No. It is a faceless hatred, unfortunately shared by too many.”

 

Reid nods vaguely at this. His gaze drifts to their knees. He appears a man fundamentally run down, and she wonders how long it has been since he last slept. “I do not believe their intent to harm,” he says. “Merely to frighten.”

 

“Fear does its own harm, Inspector.”

 

Another nod. The heel of his hand continues to massage at the muscles of his shoulder, but it feels a subconscious motion. Until the other day, she had seen no indications that there was a wound there. She wonders how often it bothers him.

 

Robert sticks his head out into the hall, a pale moon face peeking around the wood of the doorway. Deborah can see him from where they sit; she motions for him to come over. He does, stealing glances at Reid with every approaching step. When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he stands mute before them. Her children have too many good reasons to be wary of strangers.

 

Deborah captures one of his small hands, squeezing it reassuringly to prompt him to speak. Robert looks back and forth between them; still he remains silent. She makes a guess as to what it is he wants. “You wish to go outside, am I right?”

 

He nods enthusiastically. She knows she cannot keep them in here forever; she has no weapons to do battle against the lure of the morning sun. “Very well,” she concedes.

 

Robert is off immediately to share the news; within minutes the hallway is crammed with an unruly queue of excited children. A flood of them streaming past. Deborah watches them all go by, reveling in their energy. This is her favorite view of them. These children undefeated, bursting with life.

 

She doesn’t miss Reid’s cringe at the increased level of noise.

 

When they are alone again Deborah gets to her feet, brushing the dust from her skirts. Reid blinks up at her from his seat on the steps; now he too stands, pulling himself up with the aid of the railing. “I should leave you,” he says. “No doubt you have much to do.”

 

“Please, stay a little longer, Inspector.” She casts about for a reason to back this request. “You have not yet finished your tea.”

 

This calls his attention to the cup waiting on the stairs; he bends gingerly to retrieve it. She thinks his movements too careful. Too slow. But there is no help in commenting on it. Deborah carries her own tea back into the other room, her concentration on tracking the sound of his footsteps as he obediently follows behind her.

 

The sink is a mound of dirty dishes, the usual haphazard stack waiting patiently for her to do the washing up. Deborah sets her cup aside, moves to open a few of the windows. She can hear their feet pounding the dirt in the yard. The rusty complaint of metal play structures forced again into performing their tasks.

 

She returns to the sink. Her neck is inexplicably tense as she waits to see what it is he will do.

 

A part of her wants to damn this man, for continuing to come here. Over the last year they have been drawn together so many times; were she a woman who believed in such things, she might be tempted to name this intertwining something like Fate. But the world moves as it will, and she cannot hold him entirely to blame for their many interactions. Only for that kiss, a promise of something that can never be had.

 

No. He was culpable only as much as she; she cannot deny she was a willing participant in the moment. Deborah keeps her back to him as she turns on the faucet. She curses herself for a fool when she sees that her hand is shaking.

 

“You may have Hobbes for the day,” Reid says behind her. “Should they return, perhaps a uniformed presence will dissuade any further intentions.”

 

“Thank you,” she says to the pool of water filling up the sink. It is more consideration than life has given her to expect from any police force. This man is like few she has ever known.

 

“Miss Goren, I –“ he starts. It is a beginning weighted and somehow ominous, and she wants to tell him to stop even as a part of her waits to hear what it is he has to say. But he’s coughing again, the words stolen away with his breath.

 

Now a groan, and the sound of porcelain shattering against the floor. Deborah turns quickly to see him bent almost double, folded around his left shoulder. She hurries the short distance between them and guides him to sit on the bench.

 

“What is it?” It is an effort to school her voice less than frantic; she makes herself take a deep breath. Unsure if it is her hands on his arms that prevent him from toppling over, she leaves them there, crouching awkwardly in front of him. The smell of the spilled tea wafts up around her.

 

“A spasm,” he eventually gets out through his teeth, between the choked coughs and too many tortured breaths. Her frown pinches her face, pulls her eyebrows together. Reid doesn’t have his eyes open to see it.

 

Deborah lets go of him cautiously, prepared to react should he slump forward toward the floor. When he stays hunched as he is, she straightens and goes back to the sink. She uses the hot water left in the kettle to wet a rag, the only thing she can think of to do.

 

She returns to kneel on the floor in front of him; there is no response from Reid until she begins to unknot his tie. He sucks in a breath harsher than the others as his eyes fly open, the question clear in the look that flits over her face. Deborah presses the cloth into his hand, loosens the buttons of his collar; whatever he wants to say seems overruled by the struggle to breathe around the pain. He has no energy to fight her.

 

Reid closes his eyes as she tucks the folded rag under his collar, the heat apparently doing something to help. Not enough, but a brief hint of reprieve. Deborah stands. She sends a few words to a god she doesn’t think exists, a wish of a secular prayer that the spasm soon will pass.

 

She is looking back over her shoulder, contemplating the mess on the floor, when the weight of Reid’s forehead comes to rest against her abdomen. There is a moment of frozen shock as she stares down at the crown of his head. He could be one of her little ones like this, sick and desperate for comfort. Her hand finds its way into his hair.

 

They stay this way for several long minutes; Deborah hums softly as she strokes his hair, offering what little comfort she can. Her other hand slips down to cradle the back of his neck, and his skin feels warm against her cold fingers.

 

The sensation rouses him. Reid braces himself with a hand on her hip as he slowly becomes aware of where he is, tries to put some space between them. She thinks his breathing a little easier, though only in relative terms.

 

His head is still bowed; she hears him attempt to clear his throat. A heartbeat or two later and he recognizes the position of his hand, still wrapped around the curve of her waist. In another situation it would be comical, how quickly he jerks it away from her. Reid searches for somewhere else to focus, his gaze landing on the remains of the teacup.

 

A mumble of something that sounds an apology. She realizes he’s intending to get up.

 

“I’ll see to it,” Deborah tells him, trying to keep him from leaving the table. It works, though she doubts it her cunning that holds him there.

 

She takes her time in her quest for a towel and a dustpan, to give him a chance to recover. When she rejoins him his right hand is a fist tight around his bunched lapel, the only sign of movement in her absence. Reid glances up from the broken cup. He scowls when he notices the items she carries.

 

“Please,” he rasps. “Allow me…” His hand falls to the table; he pushes himself up. Deborah is near enough to see the color drain from his face, but there’s no way she can support his weight when he sways. It is only the luck of a clumsy shove that sends him back into the table rather than them both crashing down onto the shards that are littering the floor. The dustpan bounces off the debris with a metallic clatter.

 

It is not just Reid who breathes roughly now. She drops onto the bench beside him.

 

“Well,” Deborah says, once the rush of adrenaline has begun to fade. She tucks a wispy strand of hair back behind an ear, shifting to face him on the shared bench.

 

Reid rests his elbow on the table and rubs at his eyes. His left arm seems useless at his side. “Forgive me. You were right – I should not have come.”

 

This feels unfair. “That was not my meaning.”

 

“No, I’ve no wish to spread this… inconvenience to you or your charges. And after…” The sentence dissolves unspoken, but still she assumes she understands to what it is that he refers. The same indiscretion that has not been far from her own thoughts.

 

She ignores the implied subject, turns instead to the first. “It is in the nature of growing children to fight off minor illness. Generally it makes them stronger. I am not so much concerned for us, Inspector, as I am for you.”

 

He shakes his head as if to refute this, but his face remains buried in his hand. Deborah stands. Her fingers hover just above his hair, but she moves away from the table without indulging in the contact.

 

“It is early,” she says. “Rest a while.”

 

The cup is in too many pieces, an impossible aspiration for any adhesive. Deborah mops them up along with the excess liquid, sweeping as much of the mess as she can into the dustpan. She goes back to the sink, to the dirty dishes sitting in their basin of lukewarm water. She doesn’t turn around until she has made her way through them.

 

When she does she finds Reid still at the table, his head now pillowed on his arm. The lines on his face are relaxed in his sleep, his expression far more peaceful without the tumult of emotion usually visible in his eyes. With no wish to disturb him, she leaves him there to nap while she sets about tidying up the room.

 

It’s at least an hour before he wakes again, his demeanor considerably more terse – his mood a trade-off, it seems, for any possible benefits gleaned with the sleep. Deborah thinks it still a good bargain. He has little more to say to her; she cannot determine if he is irritated with her or himself. She is barely spared a hurried goodbye, unable to even hold his gaze in his rush to take his leave.

 

She pastes on a smile. Wishes him well. If there is a need to force a discussion between them, it certainly will not happen today.

 

She follows Reid to the door, out into the yard. He walks away from her down the path. Deborah deliberately turns her back on his retreating form, instead watching her children play.

 

 

 

  **end.**


End file.
